Dark ominous woods and burnt meadows,
Some feeble leaves and a dry dead rose.
Scream of life falls to the quietude of dead,
Walks where a cadaver with a fitful head.
Fissure running down the unclad feet,
To cross her path amidst the bygone fleet.
Black dull eyes scaling the whole graveyard,
A bygone soul with an old love card.
The fragile old smile seems pristine,
His few last words like sips of wine.
His love outstrips the barriers of coffin,
A mere white cloth turns to green.
But miffed he returns to his own grave,
For she’s still alive and is clock’s slave.
His letter to her needs a few more toil,
Unless both of them share the same brown soil.